Incident at Uijeongbu
by BrownRecluse
Summary: Funny thing, time… His assignment was to create a time traveling potion, but young Severus gets more than he bargained for when he finds himself lost and injured in the midst of the Korean War. Will his intrusion alter history and more important, will he ever return to Hogwarts?


The wonderful world of _Harry Potter _belongs to J.K. Rowling. _M*A*S*H, _one of the greatest ensemble TV shows of all time and originally a novel by Richard Hooker, wasdeveloped for television by Larry Gelbart. Both sets of characters are so iconic, it was hard to resist! I own nothing but the compulsion to put them together on a page and entertaining readers is my sole reward.

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><p><strong>Incident at Uijeongbu<strong>

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><p>"Incedio Eradicus!"<p>

The wad of parchment burst into flames. Another flick of his wand sent it flying across the lab. Trailing orange sparks, it hurtled through the empty classroom like a comet. A crowd's distant cheering accompanied its spectacular disappearance into thin air and then, a thin whistle signaled the end of the quidditch game. An entire afternoon wasted and nothing to show for it!

Severus glared at the window, whose tiny rectangle of ashen sky perfectly reflected his mood. Then sleet began to fall, each droplet's frozen ping against the window a wordless taunt, a short, sharp sting. He'd started with such high hopes, determined, at fifteen to be the youngest wizard in Hogwarts'history to enter Eclectic Elixirs, an independent potions study usually reserved for only the most talented seventh years. All he had to do to pass the entrance exam was brew a time-altering potion using only five, predetermined ingredients. The ones on the list he'd just incinerated.

Severus stuffed his wand back in his cloak and sighed. "Should have been," because time travel was such a ridiculous concept. He'd started with high hopes of course, but at the moment, couldn't think of any part of the past that was worth revisiting, especially his, and if the future was anything like the present, why bother?

Although he wasn't entirely convinced Professor Dumbledore hadn't set the assignment as a joke, failure to complete the task was not an option. Tapping impatient fingers on the lab station, he glared at his cauldron as he ran through the list of required ingredients in his mind. There were only five necessary for this potion, a simple mixture, really, and everything he needed or thought he did was _here_, right here in front of him! Professor Dumbledore had practically handed it to him on a platter!

So why wasn't it working, then?

Snape pushed a stray lock of greasy, black hair out of his eyes and rolled up his sleeves. Filching a fresh cauldron—a fellow classmate's—from a nearby desk, he started from scratch yet again, hoping that his seventh time would be the charm. Carefully, he measured his ingredients; as reverently as a monk at vespers, he intoned the name of each ingredient before dropping it into the cauldron's belly of silence: "Belladonna tincture, extract of bedlam seed, equal parts finely powdered ruethorn, triphillium, and oneiroweed…

"Mix thoroughly and then, simmer until reduced to a golden-viscid elixir," he said under his breath, reciting instructions he already knew by heart.

He wiped his hands on his faded black robe and then, grabbed his pestle. "That's everything," he grumbled dejectedly. "It has to be." As he began grinding and melding his ingredients, he cast his thoughts back to Friday afternoon, desperately trying to recall any clues Professor Dumbledore might have disclosed when he gave him this assignment. He did not have to wait long for memory to serve.

There _had_ been something else! What was it? Something about 'tethering oneself to the present', though at the time, it sounded like the Professor's usual brand of friendly-but-cryptic advice.

Sneaking a glance at the mixture inside the cauldron, he sighed. Did it really matter? After hours of concocting, exhausting almost every possible combination of components, the potion still refused to be anything more than a lumpy gray custard that smelled like dirty feet! He slammed the pestle on the table and drew his wand. "Why? Why, why, WHY!" Snape muttered bitterly, as he conjured a fire beneath the black iron pot.

As if on cue, another insult came from outside. This one in the form of a muted roar from the Quidditch Arena, where Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were battling it out in the semi-finals. The winner would play Slytherin in next week's championship game. Severus glanced toward the window. Lily would be there today… Lily, with her hair of spun gold and laughing eyes, warm eyes, without cruelty or guile… Beautiful, tender, perfect Lily, whose voice was soft as spring rain… Lily, crowned with freezing diadems… Lily, sitting in the stands…whose loveliness was obliterated by the cloud that crossed his heart. She would be watching James!_ Waiting for James! _Always James and never, ever, no matter how hard he tried...

_And never will, so never mind, _said the sleet, tapping on the windowpane.

His hand tightened on his wand, but the rest of him shook with cold rage. Leaning over the now-bubbling cauldron on the table, conjuring his rival's countenance in his mind's eye, he spat, "Damn you Potter! I'll show you! I'll show you all!" A bubble burst, splashing his robe, but he did not notice. As he continued his string of invectives, Severus also did not see one of the ragged ends of his green and silver-striped scarf slip into the cauldron. They quickly dissolved in the seething mixture, which immediately began to smell less like dirty feet and more like toffee.

Glancing down, an astonished Snape discovered a buttery-colored, bubbling brew. Hands trembling with excitement, he extracted the liquid with a glass dropper. Even in the small phial, its swirls were mesmerizing. "By gods, I did it! I really did it!" he cried. But had he? There was only one way to find out. Throwing caution to the wind, Snape squeezed three drops upon his tongue. It tasted like honey, with just a hint of bitter beer. "Take that, Potter," he whispered.

Then, something very curious happened.

Unseen hands grabbed him from behind and pulled hard. The floor lurched, its flagstones rolling, undulating like solid waves of a strange and frozen sea. The room began to spin, and the roar of a thousand crowds filled his ears. His throat burned with unquenchable thirst. As the lights began to dim, coalescing down to a single point, a hovering pinprick star, mounting fear replaced short-lived satisfaction. Clawing at his throat, Snape managed only a strangled, "Help me - someone - he-," before oblivion overtook him.

#

Cold, he was so very cold! Lying on his back and barely breathing, covered head to toe in a crushing wall of winter, he could not move! Even his eyelids felt like slabs of stone. A series of whistling, whizzing, and popping noises filled the air around him. In the distance, a measured mechanical beating sound, drew near.

'Fireworks,' he thought. 'Somehow, I'm outside, on the lawn, and the Quidditch game's just ended. I have to get back…must get back inside before they see…'

Something landed close by, spraying his face with stony grit. Over his head now, the mechanical beating was unbearably loud.

'Not…fireworks, then…' Snape opened his eyes. Above him, a roaring hulk blotted out the sun. Whirling black blades whipped the sky as it descended uncomfortably close to the barren field in which he lay. Staccato blasts erupted all around him and he heard the ping of metal ricocheting off metal. Snape moaned.

"Hurry up," an unfamiliar man's voice boomed. "Let's get him in!"

Hands came then…many rough, dirty, _bloody_ hands… Jostling him, tugging him. Something screamed past his ear. The throat of someone else in the field - someone very near - a man in a drab green uniform - erupted in a geyser of blood. Snape's stomach heaved. "No more, please…let me go," Snape whispered as he squeezed his eyes shut.

"On my count," said another man, this voice near his feet. "One, two - three!"

"Go… Let me…"

A hand on his shoulder. A voice saying, "Don't worry, kid, you'll be okay," and then, the feel of thick straps tightened across his legs and torso. His arms bound. The sound of metal grating against metal and bolts sliding into place. A hand smacked the metal grate above his head. "All clear! Take her up!"

More explosions and smells of acrid smoke, burning oil, and iron. Then, rising into the burning cold, the wind tearing at his face, with only the engine's rough purr and the beat of black wings to measure the distance between memory and dream as the battlefields of earth fell away.

#

The sharp tang of rubbing alcohol and iodine stung his nose. Head throbbing, he turned away, only to discover a gentler assault waiting, a layer of breakfast smells: eggs, coffee and burned toast. His stomach growled and his still-parched throat ached. 'Infirmary,' he thought ruefully. This thought was followed by one even more dire: 'I blew up the lab.' Carried on a current of burbling voices and the rustling of starched cotton, Severus Snape surfaced, expecting Dumbledore's stern countenance, a lecture on the proper management of potentially volatile potions, and a string of demerits for Slytherin for his destruction of school property. Wondering how many windows he'd broken with his last attempt at the potion (however successful it might have been), how he would pay for the damages, and how would he keep his mother from finding out, Snape opened his eyes.

He was _not_ in the school infirmary.

The far wall of his room was made of a heavy canvas the color of sun-baked mud, as was the ceiling, which was held aloft by a wooden pole. Sheets on either side of him divided the sleeping quarters into narrow queues. Someone in the one next to him was moaning in his sleep.

"Hey, sleepy head, glad you're awake! We saved you a seat at the war while you were away," said a man with tousled black hair. Grabbing a low stool, the man pulled up next to Snape's bed. Beard stubble stippled his chin and dark crescents bloomed beneath his eyes. His pants of faded cotton, whose color might have been green at some point in their life, were peppered with bloodstains, splashes of iodine, and a few colors Snape didn't want to consider. Over these, the man wore a red chenille bathrobe. Like the pants, the bathrobe had also seen better days.

"War? Where am I? Who are -?" Snape's head protested loudly as he struggled to a sitting position. A protest the inch of gauze wrapped around it did nothing to improve.

"Whoa! Easy does it there, kiddo!" Steadying Snape's thin shoulders with one arm, while popping a pillow behind his back with the other, the man in the bathrobe gently eased him back down. "One crack in your noggin is enough." Sitting back down and taking a clipboard from the foot of the cot, Bathrobe Man added, "You have a concussion - a real doozy." He read something on the clipboard, and then looked up. "What's the last thing you remember before this?"

It seemed like something standing very far away in the fog, at first. "Oh, I - Uh…" Snape shifted on the cot. "A crowd. Lily. I drank a potion…" his voice trailed off.

"Strange name for a Geisha. Next time, stick to whiskey, kid. Trust me, those 'potions' of theirs will get you every time! You're lucky you're not on a slow boat to Shanghai right now."

"Is that what happened to you, too?" Snape asked.

Bathrobe Man's head shot up. "Me?"

Snape motioned towards the bathrobe. "You…"

The man looked stunned for a moment, and then burst into peals of laughter. "Oh, this? I was wearing it when the nice men from the draft board trapped me with their butterfly nets." Extending his hand, he added, "Name's Pierce. Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, but call me Hawkeye. Everybody here does."

Feeling extremely sheepish, Snape returned the gesture. "I'm Severus… Snape. Where am I, sir - Hawkeye? What is this place?"

"This?" Making a sweeping gesture with open arms, Hawkeye said, "This, my friend, is the four-oh-double-seventh army hospital, American owned and operated, and conveniently located at the corner of plague and pestilence in beautiful downtown South Korea."

He'd read about this conflict in Muggle Studies. "Korea?" He said incredulously, "You mean I'm in the middle of the Korean War?"

Hawkeye slowly nodded. "The only war in town. Welcome to Uijeongbu, Severus. Mind if I ask you a few more questions?"

"Wow, it's all so real!" He hadn't meant to say that last part. Trying to regroup, he rubbed his head. "Oh - Ouch!"

Hawkeye clucked. "Yeah, unfortunately. Your head's going to feel about three sizes too big for a couple of days, but don't worry. I've ordered something for that, and I'll try to make these questions easy ones."

"Okay."

"So, first one: where are you from?"

He almost said, 'Hogwarts School of Wizardry,' but he couldn't tell Hawkeye the truth. "Uh, England. Spinner's End: it's near London," he hedged.

"Ah! Jolly Old England! Land of tea and crumpets, God Save the Queen, and Winston Churchill! That explains your accent," said Hawkeye. Next one: how old are you?"

"F-f-fifteen," Snape stuttered.

Pierce's face sagged. Eyes clouding, he looked away. "Fifteen," he muttered under his breath. "They're getting younger every day." He rubbed his face, scribbled something on the clipboard, and then looked back at Snape. "Do your parents know you enlisted?"

Force of habit forced him to begin with, "My mother," but then he regrouped. "No. No!" Bolting upright, Snape grabbed one of Hawkeye's sleeves. "She'd kill me if she knew! You won't tell her, will you?" Then, reality hit him and his grip slackened. He'd really done it: he'd traveled back in time - over twenty years, if his grasp of Muggle history was correct. His mother would be about ten years old right now. "Please, please, promise me you won't tell her!" He collapsed back on the cot.

Hawkeye shook his head. "Your secret's safe with me. Just promise that you'll do it eventually, and by 'eventually', I mean soon. Write her before you leave. Deal?"

Snape nodded. "I will, doctor, I promise."

Hawkeye squeezed Snape's arm. "Good! So, okay, Severus, last question before breakfast and this one's worth a million pounds: what unit are you with?"

Snape shook his head. "Unit?"

"Regiment? Battalion? Militia? Whatever the kids in Spinner's End are calling 'group of soldiers' these days."

Snape's cheeks burned. He suddenly found his ragged cuticles and dirty fingernails very interesting. "I-I'm sorry, Dr. Hawkeye, but I don't think I belong here at all."

Hawkeye chuckled. "Who does? This is hell with rats, bad food, and hot and cold running dysentery."

"No, you don't understand - I'm not a soldier." Forcing himself to meet the doctor's gaze, he continued, "You see, sir, I think I'm kind of … lost."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Hawkeye said. "In fact, it's a relief. It would've been pretty hard for you to fight in a suit and cape, anyway."

"My - my -!" Looking down, Snape was horrified to discover that his school uniform had been replaced with grayish cotton pajamas. "My clothes! Where are they? What have you -?"

Before he could finish the thought, the tent's wall rippled. A door opened. Dr. Pierce looked up and smiled. "Ah! Here's someone who can tell us."

"Captain Pierce! Our John Doe's belongings, washed and pressed to order."

At first glance, the profile, while stout, was unmistakably female, but the voice issuing from the lavender chiffon dress and matching wide-brimmed hat was decidedly _male_, as were the hairy arms protruding from its puffed sleeves. Snape's jaw dropped, his mouth forming the international sign of befuddlement.

Hawkeye beamed. "Perfect timing, as usual, Klinger. Young Severus here was just asking about them. And might I say, you're looking particularly lovely this morning."

The lavender 'lady' curtsied. "Flattery will get you everywhere, sir."

"And you nowhere," Pierce quipped. "Severus, this is Corporal Klinger, our company fashion plate. But don't let the dress fool you: he's not as easy as he looks."

Klinger turned to face Snape. "Hi, kid! I brought your stuff. Suit, scarf, cape: it's all here." His high heels clicked as he approached the cot. Setting the pile of clothes at Snape's feet, he then drew something out of the cape, which was folded on top. "Think someone must've stolen your wallet and ID, but I did find this. Thought you might want to have it."

Snape gasped, "My wand! Yes! Thank you so much Mrs. … Klinger - Corporal - ma'am?"

Hawkeye put his head in hands. His shoulders heaved.

"Go ahead, laugh, doc! At least _he_ shows some me respect!" Klinger pulled up a stool on the other side of the cot. "I like you already, kid," he said. "So, are you really a magician?"

He hated being called 'magician', but then, no one had ever told him that they liked him before. Snape smiled weakly and nodded. "Something like that, yes."

"That's great! You know, my Uncle Omar was a hypnotist back in the Vaudeville days! He used to call himself the Toledo Wizard and -"

Pierce interrupted with, "Yeah, he could make you think you were a chicken, so when he stole your wallet, you couldn't turn him in!"

Ignoring him, Klinger leaned into Snape. "Hey, once you're feeling better, do you think you could put on a show for us - do a few tricks?"

Before Snape could answer, something metal crashed behind the tent wall. The canvas shuddered.

"You can't go in there, sir! You're not sterile!" Said a boyish voice.

"Get out of my way, you little rodent, or I'll sterilize you with one finger." Said another.

Snape slipped his wand beneath the covers, but his hand tightened on its shaft. "Klinger, Dr. Hawkeye," he asked anxiously, "what's that?"

The two men exchanged uneasy glances. "Bad news travels fast," said Klinger.

"Like the wind - or in this case, like breaking wind." Hawkeye patted Snape's shoulder. "Too bad you aren't a real wizard," he whispered, "then you could make us all disappear!"

The swinging door flung open as two people stumbled through it: first came an armed officer with cruel, shifty eyes and clinging to him was a pint-sized boy, whose round glasses swung precariously from one stem.

"Don't worry, kid, we'll take care of him," Klinger whispered.

"Get off me, runt," the man huffed, "or I'll have you court-martialed for assaulting an officer!"

"Radar," Hawkeye interjected, "I think this is a good time to call your mother."

Readjusting his hat and glasses, the boy said, "My mother, sir? But it's after midnight in Ottumwa."

"Your other mother, Radar."

"Sir?"

Hawkeye motioned to the door. "The one named _Henry!_"

The boy looked very confused for a moment. Then, his eyes widened. "Oh! Right! Yes, sir!" Turning too quickly, he crashed into the swinging door. "Rats! Oh, Geez! Gee Whiz!" Then, he was gone.

Smacking the clipboard against his thigh as he rose, Hawkeye said, "Ah, Colonel Flagg! To what do I owe the dishonor?"

The man hitched up his pants. A large pistol sat in a holster near his left hip. "I'll ask the questions here, Pierce," he growled. "Out of uniform as usual, I see. And you," he said, pointing to Klinger, "you're a disgrace to this man's army!"

Klinger puffed out his chest. "Colonel, I'll have you know this ensemble is imported! Special order - all the way from Harrods," he sniffed.

"It's true, sir," Snape stuttered. "My mother has one just like it."

Flagg glared at him. "You'll speak only when I tell you to, pipsqueak." Turning to Hawkeye, he said, "I'm here on official intelligence business."

"CIA, CID, or E-I-E-I-O," quipped Pierce.

"Joke all you want, Captain, but my sources say you're harboring an enemy spy." Flagg began pacing uneasily at the foot of the bed. "He was flown in last night, pretending to be wounded."

"Wounded?—at a MASH unit? Well that certainly narrows the field," said Pierce.

Ignoring him, Flagg continued, "A man wearing a black cape and suit."

Snape gulped.

"He's a yellow Red menace, a pinko mole, and a master of disguise."

Pierce and Klinger exchanged an uneasy look. "You don't say," said Pierce. Placing his clipboard on the pile of conspicuous clothing, he leaned on it, hoping to hide it from Flagg. "Well, Colonel, I'm afraid you've come all the way out here for nothing. No one here but us red, white, and blue Americans."

"I saw that." Flagg stopped pacing. "Hand it over, Pierce!"

"What? This old thing?"

Before Pierce could continue, Flagg ripped the cape from his hands. "Just as I suspected," he muttered. "Fraternizing with the enemy!" Fixing Snape with a piercing, bitter gaze, advancing on him, Flagg boomed, "You're coming with me!"

Pierce shot up, blocking Flagg's path. "Oh, no you don't! He's my patient and he and his cape are staying right here!"

Klinger shifted onto the cot, hiding Snape behind him. "Don't worry, kid," he shot over his shoulder, "we won't let anything bad happen to you."

Gesturing wildly, Pierce shouted, "Look at him, Flagg! He doesn't even look Chinese, for crying out loud!"

"Precisely. He doesn't look anything like himself, so of course, he is!" Tapping his temple with his index finger, Flagg said, "A clever disguise! I told you he was a mastermind. He fooled you all, but he doesn't fool me."

"No, you do a swell job of that all by yourself," said Pierce.

Peering around Klinger's back, Snape cried, "I'm not who you say I am, and I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"We'll see about that!" Flagg drew his pistol and pointed it at Klinger. "Get out of my way, you cross-dressing pinko lover, or I'll blast you to smithereens!"

He couldn't let anything happen to his new friend. Snape shot out of the covers before he had time to think. Shoving Klinger aside, flinging himself only inches away from the pistol's bore, he leveled his wand at Flagg and screamed, _"Inflecto Contra!"_

A jet of blinding light erupted from the tip of the wand. It struck Flagg, enveloping him in thick tendrils of swirling green. The gun flew from his hand.

At the same time, the door to the Post-Op ward opened, and Henry Blake charged into the room. The flying gun hit him squarely in the chest. Shocked and terrified, the Lieutenant Colonel bobbled it in his hands before finally flinging it into the dirty linen hamper with a disgusted shriek.

"Whoa, kid," gasped Klinger, whose hat brim had not weathered Flagg's almost-attack and now drooped below his chin. "That was some trick!"

"Uh huh," was all an equally confounded Hawkeye could manage.

Snape, however, did not reply.

"What in the blue blazes is going on here," Blake spluttered. Charging over to the huddled body on the floor, he boomed, "Colonel Flagg! I expect an explanation right now!"

Flagg said nothing. Arms and legs twitching, back heaving, he looked as one in the throes of a soundless seizure.

"Did you hear me, Flagg?" Reaching down, Henry tugged at Flagg's shoulder.

"D-d-d-don't touch me," Flagg whimpered, his voice having lost all of its former bluster.

Pierce and Blake exchanged confused looks. "Colonel?" Pierce crouched at his side, but Flagg only curled deeper into himself. To Pierce, he seemed to have grown somehow smaller in his defeat. "Sam? Sam, look at me. Are you alright?" He looked up at Colonel Blake. "Henry, help me roll him on his back, would you."

"No!" cried Flagg, in a voice that still didn't sound like his. "Don't touch me! Don't look at me!"

"Sorry, but we're doctors. Touchy-feely's what we do," said Hawkeye. "Ready Henry? On three: one - two -"

"Heavens to Murgatroid," said Henry. He whistled long and low between his teeth. "That's the worst disguise I've ever seen!"

Staring up at him was Flagg's tear-stained face, only framed by a chin length bob and a fringe of jet-black bangs. His uniform seemed about three sizes too big for his frame, which was now slight, except for the pair of large, uneven breasts inside his uniform top.

"Get off me," he screamed. His voice seemed to be growing higher in pitch - more feminine - with every word he spoke. Scrambling to his knees, Flagg pointed at the cot and yowled, "It's him - that stupid kid! It's all his fault!"

"What kid?" said Henry, pointing to an empty cot.

Klinger gawked at Hawkeye, who only shrugged. "I didn't see any kid. Did you see a kid around here, Klinger?"

Snape's clothes lay strewn on the end of the bed. Klinger plunked himself down on top of them. "Uh … nope," Klinger stammered. "Not a one, sir!"

"He was right here and you know it!" Flagg pounded the cot with _her_ now-tiny fists. "He pointed his stick at me! You all saw!" Her voice trailed off into pathetic sobs, while her pendulous breasts heaved with every chocked moan and hitch.

"Sorry, Samantha," said Pierce, "but I'm blind in both enemy eyes."

"Hoo-Dogies! This looks like one for Sydney," Henry clucked.

"Or _Weird Tales _magazine," said Hawkeye.

"Hawk, where do you think the kid went," asked Klinger.

"Probably hiding, and can't say I blame him. He'll come out when he's ready," said Pierce, but his eyes were doubtful.

"Hey, Hawk? How do you explain the -?" Klinger waved an invisible wand.

"Ah, Klinger!" Hawkeye slapped him amicably on the back. "The answer to that question is a mystery! A mystery with a two drink minimum and a five dollar ante."

Klinger regarded him skeptically, "It's a little early for that, don't you think, Captain?"

"It's always five o'clock somewhere," Pierce sagely replied.

Klinger nodded. "Gotcha and right behind you!"

#

The moment he'd cast the spell, the same dreadful cold he'd felt in the Potions lab swept back over him. At the same time, a force began pulling him, reeling him in, as if an invisible fishhook had imbedded itself in his heart. Instead of falling, he was now sliding, very straight and very fast, through a blur of space and time. Snape felt like he was going to be sick.

Speed and motion ceased when he landed on something hard.

"This is remarkable," said a familiar mellow voice. "Truly remarkable."

Severus Snape opened his eyes and cautiously glanced to either side. He was lying on the wide, cool slabs of an immediately recognizable stone floor. The Potions Lab! He was home! Scrambling to his feet, he found Albus Dumbledore sitting at the lab table. Holding the glass phial of Snape's potion to the light, Dumbledore smiled as he watched the golden tendrils swirl and twist inside it like clouds of a miniature galaxy. An empty bag of caramel popcorn, standard snack fare at all Quidditch games, lay crumpled on the table beside him. Outside, sleet still pinged its assault against the windowpanes, but the light was lower. "It's still Saturday," Snape said incredulously.

"It is, indeed, Severus. Welcome back." Turning to his newly returned student, Dumbledore's eyes widened as he took in Snape's bandaged head and vintage army-issue sleepwear. "It looks like you've had quite an adventure, my boy."

"I have, Professor! You won't believe where I've been! I can hardly believe it, myself!" Breathlessly, Snape recounted being air-lifted out of a war zone, regaining consciousness at an American mobile army hospital in the middle of Korea, and the kindness his strange but wonderful new acquaintances had shown him. Wisely, he omitted the part about Colonel Flagg, the gun, and the charm he'd used to disarm him.

_Inflecto Contra_… Certain he'd never heard of itbefore today, Snape made a mental note to research its origins and effects as soon as possible. Could he replicate it when not under duress? Were there other disarmament spells that would leave an attacker vulnerable, but unharmed? Then, another thought intruded: What if _he _were the spell's creator? Enchantment overtook him, flinging open another door upon another dim and uncharted vista; but this journey's winding path was not to the past, but the future: _his_ future.

"Severus?" Dumbledore's mellow tones calling him back from the breach of possibility. "Severus?"

Startled, Snape began, "I'm sorry, professor, I was just thinking," he trailed off.

"About the war? The officers? Well, it's only natural that you should feel concerned." Dumbledore laid the phial on the table and shifted in his seat. Clasping his hands in his lap, he added, "Very mature of you, as well, Severus. Again, I am most impressed."

Feeling more than a little ashamed, Snape hung his head, letting his overgrown oily bangs shield his eyes. "They were so kind, Professor, making me feel like I belonged there, when they didn't even know me at all. I think, if I'd stayed, we'd have - have - been -" His eyes watered and the word stopped in his throat.

Dumbledore stroked his beard. "Friends?"

"Yes… With them, I-I-I was -" Another word it hurt him to say.

A hand on his arm, briefly, and Dumbledore's voice softly coaxing, "You were, what, Severus?"

"Ha-ah-ha- Happy." Tears came and Snape turned away.

"Then you must hold on to this memory, Severus," Dumbledore began. "A memory, especially a happy one, is like a rare and precious jewel. Keep it safe in your heart and treasure it completely, for you may need it in the days to come."

Shifting uneasily, Snape wiped his nose on his pajama sleeve. "I feel a little sick to my stomach, sir. Does the potion always make you feel this way?"

Stroking the phial reverently with one finger, Dumbledore softly replied, "I couldn't tell you, Severus, for you see, no one's ever managed to make it successfully before today. We will have much to discuss in Eclectic Elixirs next term."

"What? You mean? Wait - Professor Dumbledore -?" Once out of his mouth, the words seemed to hang in the air while he receded, becoming a glowing speck on the horizon of an unnamed distance.

"Severus! Here, here, my boy, you'd better sit down." Strong thin fingers grasped his shoulder, while a hand at the small of his back guided him into to a chair. "Forgive me for letting my excitement get the better of me, but I must say this, Severus: using Miss Evans's cauldron, was a most inspired choice of tether on your part. I don't believe a student has ever interpreted that piece of advice quite so _literally_." Patting him on the back, Dumbledore said with a wink, "A bold move, Severus, eschewing the metaphoric for the concrete. Brilliant, actually."

"Lily's…?" At the mention of her name, Snape snapped back to attention. He couldn't wait to tell her about his potion (and rub Potter's nose in it, just for good measure). _His_ potion! Heart bursting with pride, he imagined regaling Lily with his adventures at the 4077th MASH. Alone with her, he would leave off nothing. How proud of him she would be! Smiling sweetly, she would squeeze his hand, call him her brave soldier, and lay her head on his shoulder. And if, by chance, his lips just happened to graze her soft cheek…

Dumbledore intruded on his reverie. "Lily's, yes." Nodding, he ran his fingers around the cauldron's rim. "She was at the Quidditch game today, you know. Quite a bit of excitement there was, too! Poor girl slipped and fell out of the topmost stand during the game. If James hadn't swooped down to catch her when he did…" Clucking, Dumbledore shook his head. "Well, all's well that ends well, but I'm afraid Slytherin is going to have some stiff competition from Gryffindor for the Cup next week."

The name was an ice water damper on the last slim flicker of hope in his heart. _Potter! _Always, that simpering idiot Potter! Snape balled his hands into fists. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how good he was, some things _never _changed!

Epilogue:

The officers at the 4077th never saw Severus Snape again.

Colonel Flagg's symptomatology, along with its equally compelling alterations in physiognomy, was attributed to extreme hormonal imbalances precipitated by combat fatigue. At least that was the official psychiatric diagnosis, and if Dr. Pierce thought differently on the matter, for once, he kept his opinions to himself. Flagg eventually recovered from his strange affliction, but not before Dr. Sidney Freedman sent him to a Tokyo sanitarium for a month's stay.

Much as Severus had suspected, there was no record of the _Inflecto Contra _charm in any of Hogwarts library's magical archives. Snape later refined his disarming counterattack, renaming it _Expelliarmus_.

Years later, Professor Dumbledore, whilst thumbing through the novel, _An Illustrated Companion of Muggle History, _one blustery winter's day, made a surprising discovery. A photograph. And while it instantly validated a certain pupil's talent and experience, the picture also instilled in him an untold sadness (and if truth be told, more than a little dread). In it, Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger of the 4077th M.A.S.H posed with his fellow comrades outside the hospital's main surgical tent. Around his neck was a tattered scarf with a Slytherin insignia upon it and over his combat uniform was a faded cape. Sinking back into his favorite armchair, Professor Dumbledore stared at the photograph for a long time. A gust of wind battered the mullioned windows. In the fireplace, a log collapsed with a long, serpentine hiss. "A tether to the present… Oh, Corporal Klinger, what a fool I was," Dumbledore murmured. Tears stained the book's glossy pages as he whispered, "Now the eye of war stares unflinchingly upon our world, and he's joined an army, too. An army of sorts." Holding the open book against his heart, shifting his gaze to the gathering storm outside the window, Dumbledore continued, "I only hope the part of you still living in him will prevail and send him safely home."

/The End


End file.
